


Backed Up

by LanJevinson



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: I am 96 percent sure, Mentions of past drug use, This is a one-shot, a sort-of meet-cute, anxiety and depression, plumber!mickey, pre-season 1 canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-09 21:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11113230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanJevinson/pseuds/LanJevinson
Summary: The sky takes on shades of orange during sunrise and sunset, the colour that gives you hope that the sun will set only to rise again.-Ram CharanAn unexpected reunion leads to a glimpse of sunlight for  Ian in the midst of his stormiest days.





	Backed Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Violet_Jones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/gifts).



> For [@thevioletjones](http://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/), because I told her I might try to write a fic idea and she said "I'll believe it when I see it."
> 
> Special thanks to [@wideblueskies](http://wideblueskies.tumblr.com/) for the beta.
> 
> Just a little something. IDK.

“You sure you’ll be alright?” Fiona asks for the third time before she stuffs a charred, unbuttered slice of toast into her mouth, rushing around the counter to snatch her purse from the table.

“Yes, Fiona. I can handle being home alone for four hours until the plumber comes,” Ian deadpans, tossing his own untouched toast back onto his plate with a thwack. “Maybe I’ll even manage to shower and wipe my own ass today, too.” (Actually, sometimes he hardly manages that.)

“Long as you don’t use the upstairs toilet for that,” Fiona quips back, smiling tightly as she pats him on the shoulder. Then she pauses. “You know I’m just lookin’ out for you, yeah? I just love you and worry about you.”

Ian sighs. Rubs his fingers over his tired eyes.

“Yeah well, I worry about you too. Like whether or not you’ll get fired if you’re late again.”

“Fuck. LIAM!” Ian ducks his head, grimacing as Fiona shrieks only a foot away from his ear. “I’m leavin’ in ten seconds whether you like it or not!” She snatches the two brown bag lunches from the counter as Liam thunders down the front staircase. “Call if you need anything,” she urges Ian, leaning forward and kissing the top of his head. Ian tries not to wince. At least she isn’t still asking if he’s taking his meds. Progress.

Every time he gets bitter about the way his family treats him like a porcelain doll (which is pretty much all the time) he reminds himself of the years of hell he’s put them through. They’d sent him off to Basic just weeks after he’d turned 18, then didn’t see him again for nearly two years. When he’d shown back up on the doorstep high, manic, and with a couple of thankfully curable venereal diseases, he’d put his family back into turmoil that they’d been working hard to dig themselves out of while he was gone.

Two more years later, and he still sometimes wonders if his family’s life wasn’t easier without him around. Lip tells him that it’s just his intrusive thoughts talking, but there’s no arguing that things wouldn’t be way fucking better for everyone if they didn’t have to deal with their addicted, crazy, depressed brother on top of everything else.

His “take a goddamn shower you gross fuck” alarm goes off suddenly, startling him into awareness. He’s still sitting in the same kitchen chair right where Fiona left him. His ass is sore. It’s been an hour and twelve minutes.

He drags himself into the shower and then into yesterday’s sweatpants and tank. They don’t smell too bad, and the only person he’s scheduled to see is the plumber, so who really gives a fuck.

He figures he should probably eat, being an almost functioning adult and all, so he ambles back downstairs and starts making a sandwich, but gives up halfway through and just stands in front of the counter eating a few pieces of lunch meat. Fiona has helpfully laid out the HELP WANTED section of the paper on the counter where she knew he’d see it.

He flips to the personals because those are much more interesting, and is in the middle of trying to figure out what the fuck a HWP is when there’s a heavy knock at the door. He sighs, steeling himself for some human interaction and the painful small talk that it will entail, and shuffles to the front door.

“Hey,” the guy says when they come face to face. “Think your doorbell’s broken.”

“Uh,” Ian manages. His body goes rigid, like it can't decide between fight or flight.

The guy smiles a little awkwardly.

“You called for a plumber?” he says after a several-seconds-too-long silence.

“I didn’t even know we had a doorbell,” Ian confesses, his mouth finally catching up. “I - sorry - it’s just - Mickey Milkovich?”

The man in front of him is a far cry from the scrawny, dirty neighborhood boy who used to chase Ian down the street, tossing lit firecrackers at his feet. Mickey and his siblings had very abruptly been yanked from their home after an incident that Ian recalls having to do with Mandy, the only girl in the Milkovich family.

It’s definitely the same person. Ian would recognize those bright blue eyes and shock of black hair anywhere. But this man’s lips are full and his skin is pearly white. Fuck. Who knew a Milkovich could have a glow up.

“The one and only.” Mickey grins now, spreading his arms wide. He’s wearing camel colored coveralls with his name stitched over the breast pocket. He’s got a toolbelt around his waist and a clipboard in his hands.

“What the fuck?” Ian breathes. “You’re a fucking plumber? I thought you’d be dead by now!”

Mickey smirks, eyebrows high on his forehead. Ian suddenly wishes he’d changed into clean fucking clothes.

“You and me both, Gallagher. Which one are you again?”

“Ian,” Ian says quickly. “But - how?”

Yeah, he’s being fucking inappropriate, openly amazed at the fact that a Milkovich is standing in front of him, looking all put together, with a real, respectable job.

Mickey just shrugs, easing past Ian into the house. Their chests touch.

“You want my life story or you want to be able to shit in the john again?”

“Right.” Ian shakes his head to snap himself out of it. “Yeah. It’s the upstairs one.” And because he can’t help himself he adds, “You’re not just here to rob us, are you?”

Mickey snorts, already moving up the stairs. He’s been in here before, Ian has a distant memory from when they were kids. Probably chasing Frank down for some cash the old man owed him. “Like you have shit worth stealing.”

He’s right, actually. Ian follows him up the stairs.

“How long’s it been backed up?” Mickey asks, setting his clipboard down on the edge of the sink and crouching in front of the toilet. “Guessing you’ve tried to plunge it.”

“Uh, about three days, maybe? I’m not sure.” Ian scratches the back of his neck. “I haven’t tried. To plunge it, I mean. But I’m sure someone has.” Mickey peers up at him.

“How many of you are there these days?”

“Fiona and Carl and me - and Liam. My youngest sibling. Debbie lives with her boyfriend.”

“What about Lip? That asshole end up at Harvard or some shit?”

Ian coughs. “He’s, uh, at Columbia actually. Took him a while to sort shit out.”

Mickey whistles. “Smartest dumbass I ever met. Frank kicked it yet?”

“Nah. Not that I know of, anyway.” Frank comes around every once in awhile. His siblings do their best to keep the two of them separated, which Ian is begrudgingly thankful for.

Mickey nods. Bends over the tank to reach the water shutoff valve.

Jesus. Ian didn’t know an ass could look so good in a pair of baggy coveralls.

“No plumber’s crack?” Ian jokes.

“You hopin’ to ogle some hairy old man ass, Gallagher?” Mickey teases as he rises, pursing his lips to contain his smile.

“I like this view just fine, actually.” And, oh. Shit. Mickey’s smirk falters for only a split second before he flashes his teeth in a coquettish grin, giving Ian a quick once over.

“Lucky I don’t charge extra for that.”

Ian’s heart skips a fucking beat, like something out of a rom com.

Mickey turns back to the task at hand, humming in contemplation. “Gonna snake it. Probably something stuck way down there.” He moves toward the bathroom door and stops directly in front of Ian.

Ian swallows.

“Gotta get to my truck, man.”

“Oh. Right, yeah.”

Mickey gives him those amused eyebrows again as they move around one another in the doorway.

Fuck. He must be acting like a total fucking creep. What a fucking idiot.

“I'll be… around. When you're done. For like, the bill,” Ian calls to Mickey's retreating back. Then he books it as fast as his jelly legs will carry him in the opposite direction down into the kitchen.

He hears Mickey stomp back into the house a few minutes later, listens to the sound of his booted feet as he makes his way into the bathroom. Hears tools dropping onto the linoleum.

Mickey Milkovich is in his bathroom fixing his toilet. He’s like, a licensed plumber, or whatever. Certified. Probably had to go to some school for it. For a brief moment, thinking about Mickey as a success story gives him some hope.

But he probably isn’t crazy, Ian’s brain tells him. He probably doesn’t have to take pills to get out of bed in the morning. To stop himself from doing something impulsive and stupid.

He’s feeling so sorry for himself that he doesn’t even think to try to make himself look less like a total fucking bum by the time Mickey’s coming down the back staircase.

“Figured it out,” Mickey tells him, voice alight with laughter. He pulls his gloved hand from behind his back and dangles three disgusting, shit covered, vomit-inducing condoms in front of Ian’s face.

“Shit! Fuck! What the fuck?” Ian yelps, knocking his chair back with the force of his movement as he scrambles away. Mickey guffaws, walking them straight to the trash can and dumping them, along with his gloves. He’s still snickering as he goes to the sink to scrub his hands.

“Serves you right. Throw ‘em in the fucking trash next time.”

“They’re not mine,” Ian insists urgently. It’s very important that Mickey knows this. “Probably Carl. He’s always got some chick in his room. I haven’t - I’m not-” he stops short. Seeing anyone. Hasn’t fucked in months, maybe more, actually. Perks of heavy dose meds and crippling depression. Or something.

Mickey glances impishly over his shoulder at Ian, soapy lather covering his hands. “Least he wraps it up.”

“Yeah.”

Mickey dries his hands on a paper towel, then hesitates, like he wants to say something more. He’s worrying his bottom lip into his mouth and it is very distracting.

“So uh, how you been, Gallagher?”

It’s been so long that someone outside of his family has asked him this, someone who doesn’t have any inside information about everything that’s gone on in the past few years, that Ian genuinely doesn’t know what to say. He settles for the truth. Or some semblance of it.

“Doing okay.” He shrugs. “Between jobs right now. You know.”

“Blows,” Mickey commiserates, shifting his weight. Ian should offer for him to sit. Coffee, maybe. Shit, is that too forward?

“What about you?” Ian asks finally, after too long of a pause.

“Good,” Mickey says agreeably, and when he smiles again his entire face changes. It’s like, reflecting sunlight, or something equally poetic. “Real good.”

“Heard you went in the system or something.”

“Yeah. Best thing that ever fucking happened to me, honestly. Got sent to this boys’ home that wasn’t shit. Taught me a trade, got me my GED. Kept me outta trouble, you know?”

“Shit.” Ian whistles. “That’s amazing.”

Mickey snorts. “Imagine what woulda happened to me if I’d stayed around here. Probably woulda kept dealing for my old man. Prison time, definitely.”

“Definitely,” Ian agrees, then grimaces as his brain filter catches up to his mouth. But Mickey doesn’t look offended. He even takes a step forward, glint in his eye.

“You think you and me woulda banged?”

Ian forgets how to breath for only, like, a split second.

“Um?”

Mickey waggles his eyebrows, then looks Ian up and down again. A little more blatant than he had upstairs, but with no real intent. “Not a lotta options in our neighborhood, right? You’da been slumming in, but I’da hit the jackpot.” He’s flirting. Mickey Milkovich is flirting with him.

Mickey Milkovich - once a piss poor, neglected and abused neighborhood bully and now a real life adult - is gay (or at least interested in men), and he’s standing in Ian’s kitchen right now. Flirting.

“I wouldn’t,” Ian tells him. “Have been slumming it. Have you seen your ass?”

When Mickey laughs his eyes crinkle in the corners. He jerks his thumb in the direction of the stairs.

“I gotta go clean up my shit. Don’t wanna have to charge you for the whole hour.”

And oh. Right. Mickey’s here for work. Work he’s being paid for. Ian lets him go with a shrug, and feels a little like cold water has been splashed all over him.

Mickey returns minutes later after a trip out to his truck, minus the tool belt but clipboard in hand.

“Gave you the family discount,” Mickey tells him, almost bashfully, holding out the clipboard.

“You didn't have to,” Ian insists, taking the clipboard and scanning the bill. Mickey's neat handwriting bills mileage and a small parts fee. It's only $21 dollars. “Jesus, I owe you more than this.”

“Nah, not really.” Mickey waves him off. “One of the easiest jobs I ever did.”

“Well. Thanks.” Ian scribbles the amount onto the blank check Fiona had left him.

“Anytime.” Mickey smiles at him again. He carefully clips the check onto his clipboard, then shifts his weight. “Well. Good seein’ ya, Gallagher.”

Right.

Ian gestures ahead of him, then follows Mickey to the front door. He's already feeling a sense of regret and anger at himself. He's about to let Mickey slip through his fingers but he’s not gonna do shit about it.

He could sabotage the toilet again. Make Mickey come back and fix it.

Or he could just, like, go for it.

“So um, I’m not like. I don’t think I’m in a place to like, date someone right now. But maybe sometime, in the future-” He stops. Shrugs.  That was a little more forward than he was going for. But it's out there now. So.

Mickey is looking right at him, smiling faintly, partly intrigued and a little indulgent.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He nods. Swallows. “I’m actually sort of seeing someone right now anyway.” Ian deflates. Fuck. Of course he is. “It’s pretty casual,” Mickey hurries to tack on. “But I just don’t wanna be that guy, y’know?”

“Yeah, of course.” It’s admirable. It makes Ian like him even more. “Like I said, I’m not ready right now either. I just sorta felt - something.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. He purses his lips in consideration. “What if we like, exchange numbers. And then if the timing’s right for you, you can give me a call. And maybe it’ll be right for me too.” Ian’s face hurts from smiling more in the last half hour than in the past six months. “Yeah?” Mickey prompts when Ian just stands there smiling like an idiot.

“Good, yeah.” Then he’s scrambling to pull his phone out of his sweats pocket and he’s typing his number into Mickey’s beat up old iPhone as Mickey does the same with his. “I hope I call you sometime.”

“I hope you do too.” Mickey reaches out and touches Ian on the shoulder, just for a moment. “Take care, Ian.”

He’s sitting on the couch hours later, his phone still in his hand, when Fiona comes home with White Castle bags in her arms.

“Hey,” she greets him warmly, cautiously. “How’d everything go today?”

“Good,” Ian tells her honestly, because it was pretty good, considering. Better than any day he’s had lately.

Fiona beams. “That’s so great, Ian!” She moves through to the kitchen, shouting behind her, “Did the plumber screw us over or what?”

“Nah, he was nice.”

“You hungry? Carl’s pickin’ Liam up on his way, so you should dig in now.” Ian pushes himself off the couch and makes a beeline for the food. He is actually pretty hungry. “Hey, didja get a chance to look at those job listings?” Fiona nudges him with her hip, all false cheer.

“No,” he tells her honestly. “But I’m gonna try tomorrow. I think I can do it tomorrow.”

Fiona pulls him into a sudden hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” she breathes into his shoulder. “Small steps lead to big changes, you know.”

Small steps. Big changes. Ian’s phone is burning a hole in the pocket of his unwashed sweatpants.

**Author's Note:**

> I love and miss you all!
> 
> Fine me here [@lan-jev](https://lan-jev.tumblr.com//)


End file.
